


Pyrrhic Victory

by Stupidusernamepolicy



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Achilles Thanatos and Persephone are mentioned, Also reflects on a few things but this is mostly gratuitous suffering, Blood and Injury, Drowning, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hypothermia, Whump, Zagreus dies after fighting Hades and doesn't make it to Persephone, but not really, does drowning in your own blood count? oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stupidusernamepolicy/pseuds/Stupidusernamepolicy
Summary: Victory was at his fingertips, but Fates knew it would be a short lived one.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	Pyrrhic Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so I’d written the idea for this down like a month ago, and yesterday I had to go to the store to pick something up but I got my period and was feeling so spectacularly terrible that it was a miserable time trying to drag myself back home. And then today I was like “huh actually I could use this” so now you get this. Also it's like 2 am, I tired my best to edit this to be presentable and something resembling a thing a competent author could cobble together but morning me will be the judge of that.

Fire in his veins, taste of metal on his tongue, the stench of not-death hung thick in the frigid air.

Wind blew through the clearing, stealing warmth and carrying his father’s words, the ice in the air almost enough to match his tone.

“You'll pay for this.”

Zagreus watched Hades get claimed by Styx, feet tingling as they lazily melted the snow underfoot to the hard, barren earth underneath. What the river submerged never resurfaced again and his father dissolved into nothing, both defiantly staring each other down even as the bloodlike liquid drank him whole and bled back into the earth, not even a drop staining the disturbed snow.

Then, quiet.

The normally light Varatha suddenly felt leaden in his numb fingers, and a sigh escaped him when it disappeared into thin air, letting his composition crumple now that he was alone. It was cold, it was always cold, and he was always tired, but this felt different. His inner fire felt both too dim and too wild, boiling the precious little blood he had left, as if it was consuming him. Cold sweat adorned his brow and he hunched over, trying to catch his breath against the nausea and pounding of his head. Slowly but surely adrenaline bled from him, leaving only pain and exhaustion in his wake.

He blearily looked at the surface around him, cruel and frigid, drinking it in even as it sapped what little life he had left, stealing the last of his breath in more ways than one. His head felt treacherously light as he forced himself up. Summoning back his trusty spear to help carry him, he swallowed back his fear and pain. _Just a little more._

One arm wrapped around his bruised and bleeding midsection, other stabbing the end of the spear into the snow, one foot in front of the other, he carried himself out of the graveyard and into the world beyond.

Landscape changed around him as his muscles protested from exhaustion. Still, he pressed on, teeth grit against the icy gale and against the painful throb of his stomach, hellbent on getting to his destination. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The cold ignored his garments and bit at every inch of his being, exposed or not, making his frame shudder and drawing uncomfortable coughs from his burning lungs. Sweat beaded on his skin, whether from the exertion or his father’s favored boiling blood he could not tell. Every step jostled his numerous injuries uncomfortably and his legs shook ever so slightly. His tracks slowly grew shallower as the Underworld tugged him back, his lifeforce dripping like water through cupped hands. Still, the familiar instruction swirled through his cloudy mind, spilling from his lips,

“Beyond the frozen overlook... await the first glimpse of the sun to your left...” His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a windswept war drum almost drowning out the hoarse but determined whisper that was his voice, “then onward through the cold.”

The cliff wasn’t much farther ahead, he reminded himself. It would all be worth it soon. He could still make it, he just had to keep going. He was so close. _Just a little more._

Though as Zagreus knew all too well, the Fates are rarely so kind, and his foot promptly caught on a jagged rock hidden by the thick layer of snow. He went tumbling with a surprised gasp, Varatha once again disappearing into thin air under his chilled fingers as they curled around nothing. The wind was knocked out of him as he landed roughly, limbs too heavy to break his fall and the thick white quilt just barely cushioning his form as he collided with hard, frozen ground. Fresh blood spilled from the gash in his foot, a blot of red blooming in the pristine white. He coughed, a weak breathless sound. The world still spun nauseatingly as he lay prone, snow biting and melting into his ruined clothes, the wrath of Demeter claiming all in its wake. _His fault. All of it._

He clenched his jaw in a mixture of frustration and pain, his teeth threatening to chatter with the cold if he relaxed it. Tired, _so tired,_ his head pounded. _Not like this. Not here. Just a little more._

The chill crept into his voice, his words trembled with his body, mind clawing at his rapidly expiring consciousness. His was voice like a prayer, pleading, as he repeated the instruction:

“Be...Beyond the f-frozen overlook...”

Fists clenched tighter in a last-ditch effort to keep some sensation in his fingers, muscles screaming with over-exertion, he forced them under himself and lifted his midsection off the ground just slightly, dragging himself forward. Adrenaline completely gone from his system, despite the cold he could feel every ache, from the old bruises of Tartarus to the still-bleeding wound in his foot, all throbbing in tune with his uneven heartbeat and causing his empty stomach to lurch. A pathetic moan drew from the depth of his aching chest, lost to the howling wind, and somewhere in his unclear mind it registered that even if he could get up, he wouldn’t be able to walk on his ruined foot.

Frustration and despair, hot and ugly, curled in his gut and washed over him. His eyes burned and a sob caught in his chest.

Tears streamed in hot trails against his chilled skin and suddenly he was a child again, hurt and thrice as lonely. Usually he didn’t have to die alone, the unfeeling wretches that struck him down at least having a face, or his mother holding him as his body shut down.

His poor mother.

He was so close to seeing her again. He had so much he wanted to ask, wanted to hug her and tell her all the magnificent tales of his exploits in the underworld. Of the pranks he and uncle Dionysus played on Orpheus, while she would stroke his hair and shake her head good-naturedly. How much Cerberus missed her while she looked on with those tired, adoring eyes brimming with pride. Holding him as he rapidly faded, tongue heavy and words slurred as he tried desperately to tell her how much his stupid stubborn old fart of a father still loved her and wanted her back.

Those green eyes filled with sadness and her strong, _warm_ , calloused hands trying to keep him together as red crept into his vision and the darkness took him.

His breath came out in uneven, unpleasant wheezes. When he coughed it was rough, sending sparks dancing in front of his eyes and he thought he saw red drip into the snow below.

With a grunt he dragged himself forward a few feet more almost mechanically, stopping at rock near the cliff by a burbling creek. _A good place to rest_ , he thought. Catch his breath. _Await the first glimpse of the sun to your left._ His mind still wandered, almost as if floating a bit above his body.

He wondered how Achilles was doing. Still toiling away in his father’s realm, maybe wondering how Zagreus is doing, or watching his father climb out of the pool of Styx. He could only imagine how it is to deal with his father’s ire, and felt a pang of guilt. He was going to cause so many problems, without even reaching his destination.

He flipped himself onto his back and laid his back against the cold, uneven stone, curling into himself as much as he could to shield himself from the unforgiving gusts that seemed to come from everywhere. Heat bled into the frozen earth below him and violent shivers from the cold and exhaustion wracked his frame. His injured foot still wept red, the fire coating it much too dim for comfort. He didn’t dare try to warm his hand on it, afraid it would go out. Instead, he watched the horizon. He wondered if Achilles also felt like this when he died, alone and filled with regrets. He hoped he didn’t, because try as he might to deny it, Achilles deserved better than that.

He pressed his head against the stone to cool his paradoxically burning forehead and closed his eyes for a moment. If only he were there right now, he might have an idea how to deal with the ailment that befell him, or the wounds he never had to learn how to bandage. Maybe he would help him to his mother, he’s sure to be looking forward to seeing her again too. He would take even a warm hand grounding him as he expired, as long as he wouldn’t have to see the look in his eyes. Disappointment would be too much to bear, and sorrow even more so.

It was hard to breathe now, something uncomfortable bubbling in his aching chest and every cough brought more of that foul metallic taste. Though his vision swam, worsening his ever-present nausea, he reopened his eyes to a squint and tried to focus on a point on the brightening horizon.

He wondered where Thanatos was. Probably busy, working hard to make up for the time he lost helping Zagreus out of his father’s realm and keep Hades’s suspicions at bay. For a moment he wondered, _(he hoped)_ he sensed Zagreus, his blood mortal enough to be mistaken for one, and that he may take him back home. More than ever he wished to hear the toll of bells, for his Than to appear, and he wondered how he may look in the light of the surface he regarded with such contempt. That he would float over, graceful and gorgeous as always, gingerly lift him and that he may provide some comfort in this failed attempt, even if it’s just being cradled against his breast as he fades. That he would ease some of the throbbing pain, some of the biting cold, some of the suffocating loneliness.

Coughs ripped through his throat, making him hunch over away from the rock and stilling his mind for a minute as he struggled to pace his breathing. He could feel something warm on his lips, dribbling down his chin, awful taste of blood redoubling its presence on his tongue before he stilled again, fitful breath under control for now.

Then again, he thought back to the last time he saw him. Impassive, clinical face was taken by shock as Zagreus felt something strike him in the back. As he was plunged into the Styx, he thought he could hear him call his name, tone stricken and uncharacteristically distraught. He didn’t see him at the house after that, and as he thought back to the look on his face his heart twisted painfully. Would he look like that if he saw him in his current state? Perish the thought.

The wind was less harsh now and the first rays of sunlight spilled over the horizon, warming Zagreus’s chilled and beaten flesh. He should move, he knew, but violent shivers still shook his frame, limbs leaden from exhaustion.

_Then onward through the cold._

His eyes watered against the blinding light, and he closed them for a long moment, letting it wash over him. His breath was coming out in short spurts, the little puffs of steam disappearing faster each time. Maybe it would make sense that Thanatos wouldn’t come. He always said he hated the sun. He was too far gone to make sense of why that fact made him so unspeakably sad.

Was the water from the creek red, or was it just a trick of the light?

The crackling sensation in his lungs returned and he coughed, long and wet. Red spilled from his lips, freely spilling down his chin and staining his garments and the snow below. Numb limbs twitched and he curled into himself, fighting for breath that wouldn’t come. Hoarse wheezes and frigid air just irritated his abused throat more and the coughs wracked his frame mercilessly, causing his back to slide off the stone and back into the snow. He lay on his side, fresh tears springing to his eyes, the pounding in his head growing unbearable. And still, the coughs did not cease.

Panic took him, he couldn’t breathe. A high gurgling wheeze escaped him, an ugly, painful sound, akin to one of a dying animal. He didn’t want to die. _Not like this. Not so close. Not alone. Please._

No matter how much blood he forced out, it kept coming. Natural causes, as Hypnos called them, seemed to be worse on an already battered body. It felt like the Styx had a spring inside him, dissolving his insides and corroding his lungs, drowning him.

His abdominal muscles burned from the force of the coughs and a gasp caught in his throat as he dry heaved, empty stomach threatening to spill the contents it did not have, his entire body protesting. Every inhale was an icy dagger, every exhale a convulsing rejection of it; he could no longer force any air in, let alone force any out.

Broken wheezes grew fainter, the bubbling of the creek echoing faraway in his ears. Young Zagreus drew his final breath, out, then stilled. Red water of the Styx stirred and flowed out of the creek's bank, lapping at the frozen corpse. When it ebbed back into its domain carrying the boy's soul with it, there was scarce a trace that he was ever there, save for an ugly red stain against the disturbed snow.

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this I realized that maybe it’s kinda fucked up that I knew what some of the things I described felt like. Yikes.  
> Take care of your lungs kids, lest you also learn what it feels like to almost pass out from not being able to stop coughing. Or just don't be born with the lungs of a frail Victorian woman like me idk.


End file.
